Auro Is Here
You can’t do anything except write when Kassidy’s away.
Auro is here and pieces of their thoughtspace are out in thousands of tiny bubbles, as they always are. Synesthesia colors them vomit, or the forest, dark greens and–you fight down trypophobic nausea–nature, not your own nature, which is blue-gray (the color of Kassidy’s eyes) and not what it should be. But there is no should be. You’re all Guardians, and everything around you is correct when you believe it to be.
Auro is here and weaving threads between the furthest bubbles, and your own thoughtspace envelops everything without them noticing. Their hooks are catching on your own insecurities. You don’t say anything. Kassidy’s gone. They’re the only distraction, other than your paper, which you’re inundating with all your gray so your friends’ colors will love you more.
Auro is here and the colors they’re spinning are almost dizzying to watch, but not dizzying. They’d only be dizzying if you were like them. That’s what their colors say when you feel them against yourself. Not yourself. Your thoughtspace. You’re barely your thoughtspace, anyway–that’s your problem. It won’t let you sink in. No, you won’t let yourself sink in. Or the Wall. Does the Wall control that? The building (which is entirely of you) shudders, but Auro doesn’t notice.
Auro is here and they’re so wonderfully different from Kassidy. Auro talks more, and enthusiastically, and constructed the foundations–heh–of their thoughtspace from scratch. You found each other through your shared forays in G(A), like you found Kassidy and the people from Before, but you stay for the adventures they take you on into their thoughtspace that have nothing to do with your old fandomspirits.
Auro is here, and they press against a different dent in your chest than Kassidy. You need both of them to fill the In-Betweenness they elevated you to… the Wall’s mistake. That you don’t know how to make up. You can’t make them fill somewhere you restrict them from. At least they know what they’re doing when they talk, at least they know it’s half of their fault you’re here with them. Not that you complain.
Auro is here, and you’re never sure how to respond to their musings. You don’t know if you should. You don’t know if they won’t turn on you for it and become one of the Before. If they become one of the many you’ve lost through Wrong Words, you won’t ever face Kassidy again. You won’t talk again. Internet or Reality or Fiction. You won’t even try to daydream–not that you ever succeeded. You can’t do anything they do as well as they do, which should be a given, but you never wanted this. You never deserved it. But you’ll learn to live in limbo. You have learned to live in limbo–just not well enough. It’s odd. You got too much praise when you were alive./
Auro is here, and they haven’t noticed your silence, because you’re usually suffocated under the pressure of their string and bubbles when they weave them around you without knowing where you are.
Auro is here, and you won’t quarantine your mouth again over something so small. You’re waiting for a hook you can use to tighten the accidental net of themself they’ve drawn all over you, with marker and Micron pen.
Auro is here and writing, so you check the wordcount of your paper. You’re not supposed to do that–you’re supposed to write for your love and your interests, but you don’t have passions like you should, so you use numbers. Just like Ira. But Ira had (has) too. It’s better when you have both, like Kassidy. But if you need to lose one? Lose the number. Cast it off like freed SCPs in the halls of your workplace (too loud, too many colors) who haven’t realized the only existence they lay claim to is Meaning. But you lose your number, and you lose your motivation. GUNTJ-P. GUNTJ-P. You cling to the few labels you’ve been granted. They’re what keeps you whole, while your friends shed theirs like the paper trail Vanguard leaves behind.
Auro is here and you’re delighted you can understand anything they say. It’s an honor and a privilege to sit this close to burgeoning greatness–when they unleash the colors they’ve woven into the zeroes and ones you’re bound to them by into the streets of their city, you’ll be the first to venture out with a raft, and the first to overwhelm yourself by looking too close. You won’t be the first to praise their work.
Auro is here and their net is comforting against your sinking shoulders. It’ll leave marks, you’re sure, but they’ll become the colors that your weakened immune system (lack of emotional boundaries) considers its own. It could be worse. You could’ve been the empath who weaves unnecessary intricacies into their clothing so they aren’t assaulted by the bruises all Guardians carry–except you, all you know you have is a scar from the Before and you know they’ve noticed and they know you’re In-Between and a mistake and took what your friends deserved for yourself–but no. You’re fine. It’s just because Kassidy left, and now your thoughtspace is as rough as the Pacific.
Auro is here, and their thoughtspace is as turbulent as the Antarctic, from the colors they were forced to suppress while alive. You’re nothing compared to them. You’ve known this since you were alive, when they showed those colors and blinded you for a month, but that never meant you loved them any less.
Auro was always there, in some way or another: expert, historical, loving, never condescending, wordsmith, superior. Shatterer of the complexes you developed from your own paltry thoughtspace, the first time you realized how small you were. The first Auro, from Before: silencer of a year and a half, until you met the second. The one who sits in front of you now, graciously sharing the colors that still blind you. Adrenaline curls around the marker-drawn lines and pools in strange glowing circles around the thoughtsphere-bubbles, and you tense as if your own body is barbed wire. It’s not. It doesn’t feel like it is. You need to move and you can’t, and you need to freeze and curl but you can’t stop yourself from moving and you shrug and shudder the net away with one violent motion and then you scream, not so loudly it scares you, because, as always, Auro has done worse. You don’t matter. Nothing that happens to you will matter unless Auro worries.
And to your half-surprise, they do. They pick out what bothers you better than you can, and they’ll never berate you for looking at them strangely the way your mother did. It’s only because you don’t look at them at all.
When you’re alone and away, you fall onto yarnnets of their perceived pity, molding your arms and limbs even as they feel as if they’ve been caught in the middle of a schoolyard jump-rope. You’ve always worn long sleeves to hide the burns. You walk away bleeding, but whole, unjudged.
Is it fair to imagine the Antarctic pities the Pacific’s squalls, or the Atlantic mops up the vapid green debris from her hurricanes? Do they love her, or do they scoff at her misery? You’ve always hidden who you are behind allegories; it’s one of the few things your MBTI was right about (easily lose yourself in daydreams; well, wouldn’t that be nice). You’ll pile layers upon layers until you forget what was underneath it all.
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Damian: "Red Hood has a pretty severe concussion. What do I do?"
Tim: "Extraction's still ten minutes out, just keep him talking."
Damian, urgently pressing the comm: "I don't want to talk to him, he's even more insufferable than usual."
Jason, lying on the ground, eyes closed: "That's funny Junior, because head trauma's the only thing that makes you bearable."
Damian, to Tim: "I'm leaving. It won't be the first time we've had a closed casket."
Tim, groaning disgustedly: "Robin--ugh, seriously, just stay there and keep him awake."
Damian, seething even more when he sees Jason's smirk: "Fine."
Jason, cracking open one eye: "Aww, are you concerned about me?"
Damian: "Shut up. The only thing I'm concerned about is our family's reputation after your public wipeout on that stupid motorcycle."
Jason:
Damian: "Are you still awake?" *kicks him* "Todd?"
Jason, grinning: "You said our family."
Damian, furious: "I didn't. You've lost more brain cells than you could afford."
Jason: "Wait 'till Tim hears, I think he'll want a group hug. Bruce is probably going to get emotionally constipated. Dickie would probably cry--"
Damian, panicking as he hears the Batmobile get closer: "Stop. Do not tell him--"
Jason: "You better erase every single fucking video of me crashing then."
Damian: "You have a deal."
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Secret South African documents reveal that Israel offered to sell nuclear warheads to the apartheid regime, providing the first official documentary evidence of the state's possession of nuclear weapons.
The "top secret" minutes of meetings between senior officials from the two countries in 1975 show that South Africa's defence minister, PW Botha, asked for the warheads and Shimon Peres, then Israel's defence minister and now its president, responded by offering them "in three sizes". The two men also signed a broad-ranging agreement governing military ties between the two countries that included a clause declaring that "the very existence of this agreement" was to remain secret.
The documents, uncovered by an American academic, Sasha Polakow-Suransky, in research for a book on the close relationship between the two countries, provide evidence that Israel has nuclear weapons despite its policy of "ambiguity" in neither confirming nor denying their existence.
. . . continues at the guardian (24th of may, 2010)
here's also a research paper published in 2004, which, looking at declassified south african documents, lays out apartheid south africa's rational for acquiring nuclear weapons (bombing, or 'deterring,' black liberation groups):
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[Image ID: a drawing of an androgynous child, with eyes heavily shadowed and short black hair that’s jagged at the end. Their facial expression is neutral but could be interpreted as sadness. Their skin tone is slightly desaturated. They have thick, black eyebrows, and glasses with a yellow string attached to both frames that floats slightly in the air before wrapping around their neck. They are wearing a gray shawl, a necklace with a fountain pen at the end, and a very wide yellow knitted bracelet. Their shirt is light, desaturated blue, and their pants are a desaturated brown with purple tones. They have a small brown notebook in a pocket on their shirt. End ID]
This is what one Guardian looks like. Their name is Nao.
They’re an In-Between masquerading as a Passive and they don’t talk to anyone but themself and their two friends, who are both Actives. Nao’s body is 11 years old. They work under the New Triumvirate as a secretary for the ambassador to general SCP thoughtspace. They’re bothered by living in Fiction, but don’t go back to Reality, because their presence there would just take up space someone needs more. Because they’ve learned from their Guardianhood that someone always needs more.
Nao hates loud noises and the crackling of phone calls, and posing for pictures. They used to love talking about the things they did in Fiction when they were alive, but now it’s just a reminder that they weren’t enough. Nao’s feelings towards their friends are complicated and they’re the only thing they try to hide.
Nao is In-Between instead of Active because the Actives had to teach them to dream, when they were still alive.
Silence doesn’t come naturally to them, but their thoughts aren’t worth much anyway. Their own Guardian made that quite clear, as did all the people who used to talk to them.
Nao’s heard most of them became Active too, when the Wall took them.
Nao has no one to help them through their smudged feelings about the two people left they’re not afraid to love, so they don’t acknowledge them at all. At least theirs are blurry and easy, their friends, and everyone else, is healing from worse—they can wait. In the end, they deserved this fate, because Guardianhood is the heaven for the Actives they should have been delivered when they were alive, and Nao has no right to complain.
I may create a storyline for them later.
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